


The Heartlines on Your Hand

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s so quiet, Chris feels like the only thing he can hear is the sound of his breathing and the beat of his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heartlines on Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Becca](princeblainers.tumblr.com), for my 25 Days of Ficmas thing. <3

“Perfect,” Chris mutters under his breath, as he stares out the window of his room. It’s dark enough outside that he can’t possibly see the snow coming down, but he can hear the wind moaning and watches as it shakes the glass panes. “You guys drag me up to the mountains, and we get stuck in the middle of a blizzard.”

“I thought you liked storms,” Ashley drones from where she’s reclining on his bed, casually flipping through a magazine and probably not paying him much attention at all.

“Well, I don’t like  _this_  storm.” Chris crosses his arm and glares at the force of nature that he can’t see.

“You have been such a moody bitch since we got here.” It’s said like a flat fact, rather than an insult, but Chris still turns to glare at her. “Your hand is still bugging you, isn’t it?”

Chris flexes his left hand, staring down at it, and then shrugs noncommittally.

“Don’t give me that, Colfer. You don’t experience so much as a tingle for twenty years, and now it’s acting up so bad that you’re PMSing?” Ashely finally looks up from her magazine and levels him with a gaze. “Ever think that maybe something big is about to happen?”

Chris looks back towards the window, pressing his left hand to the glass and staring at the markings around his pinkie finger.

*

The lodge they’re staying in is big and rustic, the sort of lodge Chris thought didn’t actually exist until he set foot in one. He can’t exactly ski, and he had pushed off Cory’s eager willingness to teach him how to snowboard, and thus has spent most of his time inside the lodge rather than out in the snow. It’s actually a soothing environment to write in, and Chris had found every comfortable nook the lodge had to offer while his friends were out… Doing whatever it is that people do in the snow.

Of course, no matter how big the lodge is, that doesn’t stop it from being incredibly crowded now that no one can go outside. The blizzard had blown through the night, the wind shaking the windows seemingly every time Chris was about to finally fall asleep. As a result, he’d spent too much of the night staring at his hand, biting down on his lip whenever it would suddenly tug—sharp, insistent, and a little painful.

He knows that Ashley’s right; the moment they arrived, his hand had started to bother him, and it hadn’t put him in the best mood for the trip. He’d already planned not to venture outside, into the snow and the wet, but the constant annoyance in his palm had also made him constantly aggravated and antisocial.

A crowded lodge certainly isn’t helping things.

Chris sleeps through breakfast, but Lea is at his door right at noon, knocking loud and insistently and calling him out for lunch.

“You look dead,” she says cheerfully when he leaves his room, and he almost turns around and goes back to bed when Ashley  _appears_  and grabs him forcefully by the arm.

“You’ve stayed in your room the whole trip already, you can have lunch with us.”

Chris would really rather go back to sleep.

The lodge has one restaurant, and it’s lunchtime, and Chris knows before they even get downstairs that it’s going to be overflowing with people. He isn’t wrong.

That’s when the stumbling starts.

Chris isn’t exactly graceful, but he wouldn’t say he’s clumsy—especially not  _this_ clumsy. At first it’s just a loss of footing, jerking forward and into Cory’s back.

“Dude, you okay?”

“I, yeah, I must have just tripped over something.” Wood floors, after all. Maybe his toe caught on an upraised board.

But then he stumbles sideways, first into Lea, and then into Ashley, and they’re both looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“Have you been holing up in your room because you’ve been boozing it up?” Ashley teases, and Chris glares at her as Lea smacks his arm.

“ _Without us?_ Chris would never.” She pats over the spot she just hit, and then continues to lead him forward.

There are too many people, and Chris is bumping shoulders with them, squeezing past them, unable to rub the headache that’s forming in his temple with two freakishly strong women holding his arms. He doesn’t even  _feel_  hungry, his stomach bubbling strangely, and they’re just about to sit down when Chris feels his balance tip and he’s suddenly falling backward.

He hits someone. Someone who falls back into someone else.

“Watch it!” One of them says.

“Dude, don’t be rude,” another voice says, but it’s this voice that Chris’s ears focus in on. “You okay man?” There’s a brief touch to his shoulder, but then Lea is there, fussing over him and pulling him up, clucking over him like a mother hen as she checks for damages.

“Lea, I’m  _fine_ , I—”

Who was that?

Chris feels like every major organ in his body has jumped a foot in the air as he turns around, but… Whoever it was is lost in the crowd, gone, but even the disappointment doesn’t settle Chris down.

He feels sort of like he’s going to vomit.

“Chris?” Lea frowns at him, and he steps out of her reach.

“I’m not… I’m not feeling well, I’m going to go lay down again.”

His hand feels like it’s vibrating, run through with a thousand needles, and he pushes himself as quickly as possible back to his room. Chris rubs at it, wondering why he suddenly feels so light headed.

*

They each come to check on him once, and each time they believe that he’s honestly not feeling well. It helps that he’s gone so pale, that he’s shaky and clammy and his head feels like it’s about to explode.

Cory wonders if he needs to go to the hospital, if maybe something is  _seriously_  wrong, and Lea just wants to sit with him and pet his hair. Maybe it’s because Ashley knows him best, but she doesn’t try to hover. She gives him advil, and Chris knows she’s the one to thank when room service magically seems to bring him diet coke every other hour.

It’s late when Chris finally starts to feel his body calm down. He’s not tired, even though he knows it must be after midnight, and for some reason the last thing in the world he wants is to stay in his room. He feels stir-crazy, like a suddenly caged bird, and his hand still has that prickly feeling, the way his foot feels when it falls asleep and it’s starting to wake up again.

He throws on a sweatshirt, brushes a hand through his hair, and then pads out into the hallway without even putting shoes on. The lodge is kept warm, but the wood is still cold under his bare feet as he walks. Chris isn’t even sure where he’s going, just… Just that he needs to be walking.

It isn’t exactly quiet—it’s a lodge, people are on vacation, and there will always be people up—but everything certainly is more muted and calm. Chris hugs his sweater closer, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s headed downstairs. It almost feels like he’s sleep walking, except that he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s very aware of the increasing discomfort in his palm.

In the center of the lodge is a large, stone fireplace, open on both sides and ringed with couches and chairs. There’s no one there, despite the fact that the fire is large and warm and cheery, crackling happily as if it was warming a crowd rather than empty space.

Chris knows that’s where he’s going before he gets there, and he walks right up to the stone ledge that creates a nearly three foot perimeter around the fire grates.

What is he doing here? Chris rubs at his head, but it feels clearer than it has in hours. Apparently, the more his hand starts to bother him, the less the rest of his body does. Sort of like all the discomfort is being channeled into one, centralized point. Chris rubs at his palm, biting his lip, and sitting down on the stone beside him. The fire feels good, if a little stifling, pressing warm at his back and making him shudder. At least it’s quiet. Chris closes his eyes.

His momentary peace doesn’t last long, though.

There’s suddenly this strange sensation at the base of his skull, and it zings through his body until it blares, hot, in his hand. He gasps, loudly—it feels like he’s placed his hand straight in the fire. Apparently, his hand agrees, because Chris then feels himself jerked towards the grate and flames.

“What are you  _doing?_ ” He hisses at his hand—and then feels stupid for talking to his hand.

“Hello?”

Chris freezes, sitting up and looking around, but… He can’t see anyone.

“…hello?” His eyes dance back and forth, but there’s no one there, no one in front of him, no one coming down the stairs…

“Where are you?” The disembodied voice sounds amused, and the sound of it rings in Chris’s ears, familiar and pleasant.

“I… Where are  _you?_ ” Chris doesn’t dare blink. “Unless you’re the Ghost of Christmas Past, then I’m… Perfectly okay with not knowing where you are.”

There’s a laugh, bright and happy, like the flames of the fire, and it eases a tension in Chris that he’d never noticed was there.

“Dude, I would totally be Christmas Present.”

Chris is pretty sure ghosts don’t use the word  _dude_.

“Oh, wait…”

Chris looks around, hearing movement then, and it’s fear rather than anything else that makes his heart rate pick up. That’s what he tells himself, at least, when he nearly screams at the sight of a shadow.

“You were just on the other side, I should have…” The voice trails off as someone comes into view, but Chris doesn’t even really think much of it. Then again, he doesn’t think much of anything. He stares at the figure, occasionally flickered over with firelight, but Chris can’t even focus on any part of him… But his eyes.

His hand gives one final flare, and then the feelings fade.

It’s so quiet, Chris feels like the only thing he can hear is the sound of his breathing and the beat of his heart.

Chris doesn’t know this person’s name, but… He knows him. Chris  _knows_  that he knows him, can feel it warm and sure inside of himself. His world seems to tip and tilt and he feels dizzy and lightheaded, just for a moment, and then everything seems to settle more than it ever has before.  _Thinking_  feels different, like maybe Chris’s brain hadn’t been operating at it’s full capacity before (something that would be frustrating,  _is_ frustrating, but Chris can’t acknowledge it, not now). It’s like Chris had been wrapped in a film he’d never known had been there, and suddenly all of it has been ripped away.

Is this what a butterfly feels like when it breaks out of a cocoon? Chris feels like his entire body is waking up, like he’s been asleep for as long as he can remember.

But it doesn’t feel like waking up from a dream, or a nightmare, but rather… Rather sinking into a dream, feeling it replace everything else that used to surround him, the softest blanket that’s as strong as a shield, weaved together with promises that haven’t been made yet but that he believes anyway.

He feels safe.

He feels safe, even with the eyes that are pinning him there, still, but Chris can’t imagine moving. He feels like, if he moves, he’ll float away or crash to the ground, everything too loose to operate the way it normally would.

The eyes hold him, keep him up, warm every place inside of him that has ever been cold or dark or alone.

When Chris breathes again, unaware that he hadn’t even been breathing, it feels like he’s breathing for the first time.

Maybe the world is tilting forward, or maybe he’s moving, because…  _He’s_  coming closer, Chris doesn’t even know  _his_  name, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Chris knows him better than he’s ever known anyone in the entire world, knows that his eyes are the color of honey, caramel, chocolate, molten warm and searing through every inch of Chris.

It takes a few moments to realize that he’s still frozen in place, hasn’t moved, but it’s  _him_  that’s moving, nearly tripping over chairs until he’s close. Every part of Chris itches to reach for him, but he reaches first, hands sliding to cup Chris’s face. It feels like home. It feels safe.

 _Safe, home, right_.

Chris feels like maybe he would wilt, but those hands hold him up, just like the eyes had. Chris trusts the hands, closes his eyes, can feel every bump and ridge as it brushes reverently and tenderly against his skin.

Chris fights the sudden urge to start crying.

“I knew you were here,” he says, and maybe Chris had known and told himself not to believe. Chris laughs, he can’t help it, it escapes him, choked with the tears he feels like shedding but that probably won’t come.

The tip of a nose brushes against his, and Chris can’t stop smiling, even as lips press against his and… This is what kissing is, Chris has  _kissed_  before, but that can no longer be called kissing.  _This_  is a kiss, and it feels like a key unlocking whatever had been holding Chris down. He surges into it, arms reaching up and wrapping around broad shoulders that his touch already knows, kissing back in a way that feels memorized but that Chris has never done before.

There are parts of Chris, screaming in protest, with questions, wondering, but the delicious, dreamy haze quiets them, pets them down, explains all the questions away. Chris doesn’t have to think, he just has to feel, has to know the lips that move so sweet against his that the crying feeling comes back, that Chris’s heart wants to beat out of his chest and into this other body, to get as close to it as possible.

“I… Sorry.” He laughs, and Chris opens his eyes, bites his lip and shakes his head.

“Please… Please don’t apologize.”  _Please_.

“I don’t even know your name.”

Chris feels dizzy with the way fingers are brushing over his skin, like every touch is important, like  _Chris_  is important.

“It’s Chris.” Something knots in his chest, like tying a ribbon to an anchor, but it’s not wrong. It doesn’t feel constraining, or sharp, or painful. It’s like…

Chris’s left hand is lifted carefully, and he has to look away from the eyes, and the eyelashes, and a face that’s already as familiar as his own.

“I’m Darren.”

Darren laces his right hand with Chris’s left, and they both gasp at the same time. That’s what the feeling is like, and Chris feels it again and again, through every orifice of his body. The tying of a hundred little strings, the grounding, comforting feeling of holding someone’s hand.

*

It never feels weird, even as Chris’s head clears and he starts to feel normal again. Except, it’s a new kind of normal, a  _better_  normal. Chris had always wondered what this day would be like, wondered if it would ever come. People told him it never would. Maybe he’d given up hope, the hope that there was someone for him.

But Darren sits there, and he can’t stop smiling, and that means Chris can’t stop smiling, and they never stop holding hands.

If either of them get tired, they don’t show or mention it. They curl up as close together on one of the loveseats, practically in each others laps as they talk about… Everything. Chris can’t remember the last time he talked so much, about so many things, but Darren never looks bored. He rests his head on Chris’s shoulder, and his curls tickle at Chris’s cheek in a way Chris never thought he’d love so much.

Sometimes, one of them will be in the middle of a sentence, and Darren will just lean in and drop a kiss to the corner of his mouth, with absolutely no explanation. Chris finds he doesn’t need one.

They remember to finally look at their hands, at the way their marked pinkie fingers link together and finally pointless loops and lines mean something.

”..it’s a treble clef,” Darren says quietly, his lips close enough that his breath tickles at the skin of Chris’s neck. Darren traces the shape with his other finger, and the sensation makes Chris’s eyes roll back in his head. It’s common day superstition that the marks are never coincidence, that they make pictures for a reason, but they don’t discuss why or wonder exactly what it means. That doesn’t stop Chris from staring at it as much as possible.

They must fall asleep, Darren pulling Chris close to his chest and holding him tightly. Chris can’t help but wonder what Darren always imagined for his soulmate, if maybe he had doubts. He wonders why Darren holds so tight as he tells Chris stories, kissing any part of Chris he can reach—his forehead, his eyebrow, his cheekbone.

They must fall asleep, because someone wakes Chris up by shaking his shoulder and he’s still on the couch, with Darren.

“Uh, Chris?”

He blearily opens his eyes, knowing he must not have been asleep very long, and smiles when Darren groans and holds tight. It takes Chris a moment to realize that it’s  _Cory_ , standing there and staring at him like he isn’t sure what to make of the situation, and behind him is Lea, looking torn between being mad at him and wanting to scream and squeal and ask him every question that vibrates on her lips (Chris can practically _see_  them). And then there’s Ashley, and she isn’t smiling, but Chris can tell she knows what happened. She raises her left hand, eyebrow raised, and Chris nods, small and subtle.

“Shhh,” Chris whispers, and then settles his head back against Darren’s shoulder.

“Tired,” Darren mumbles into his ear, and Chris reaches up to brush fingers through the messy pile of Darren’s curls.

“Sleep,” Chris hums quietly, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Darren’s sleepy smile. He’s blind, now, to whether or not Cory, Lea, and Ashley are still there—if anyone is there, really, and he can’t make himself care. He’s sure the couch is uncomfortable, but he’s not bothered by it just yet. His body settles, easily and heavily, against Darren’s, and Chris breathes him in.

It’s the best sleep he’s ever had, and he’s not ready to wake up just yet.


End file.
